


Journey

by InterNutter



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Adventure, Australia, Gen, fem!Rabbit, minor swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rabbit is breaking down, and the band must travel to a hostile land (Australia is naturally hostile) to track down Rabbit's construction plans. Will they find them in time? What strange surprises will they find along the way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey

Disclaimer: I do not own the band Steam Powered Giraffe, nor do I manage them. I lay no claims to their stor(y/ies) nor the narrative they choose so that Bunny can be on stage as a persona closer to herself. I just love the band and write silly stories. Please don't take this story and claim it as your own.

 

The Journey  
InterNutter

Antique robots may not exactly sleep, nor eat. But there are resources they still require.  
"Who took all the oil?" complained Hatchworth. "I don't need my gears to rust."  
"Should'a got upgraded," sang The Spine. "I only need a ten thousand mile service."  
"I like my old parts," said Hatchworth. "They're comfortable."  
"They rust," countered The Spine. "Next time we stop by Waltercorp, you should at least switch to stainless steel."  
"Bah. There's nothing wrong with good, old-fashioned brass."  
"Oh I agree," sniped The Spine. "What's a little verdigris between friends?"  
"That's copper, The Spine."  
"Then the bits of iron must be filling you with rust."  
Hatchworth snorted and rolled his eyes so hard that he was lucky none of them rolled away. "Say what you will, but my old chassis is classy." The spare oil should have been in the other cupboard. But there, too, was empty tin after empty tin.  
"Who's been goin' through all of it?" Hatchworth wondered out loud.  
"Not I, said The Spine." The Spine smirked into his newspaper.  
Hatchworth checked the other cupboards. Empty tins. Lots of them. They used to contain oil, but now there wasn't so much as the barest drop in them.  
"Thinking of making a few tin gears?" teased The Spine.  
"Tin's too malleable," harumphed Hatchworth. "And anyway, if I empty a tin, it goes in the trash."  
"So who's been hiding all of those? It's almost enough for another one of us."  
"Hey guyyyyszzzzzzzzzz..." said Rabbit. "Wha-a-a-a-a-t's up? Besidezzzzzzz the ceiling-ing?"  
"We're out of oil," said Hatchworth. "Need to tell us anything?"  
Rabbit glanced once at the open cupboards full of empty oil tins. He lunged for a nearby cup and belched up almost too much oil.  
"That's been happening too often," said The Spine. "Sure you don't need maintenance? An upgrade?"  
Rabbit went very quiet. This wasn't his usual, jokey self.  
"Something's *zrk*-ing. Some...thing's loose." Rabbit almost collapsed into a nearby chair. "I... I wa-a-ant. To go. Home."  
There was a noise like a grating clutch and Rabbit fell over completely.  
"Is he dead?" said The Spine. "Should we fix him or call back The Jon?"  
Hatchworth glared at him. "I like Rabbit better. C'mon. We're making an unscheduled stop at Waltercorp."  
"We could try singing the ice-cream parade song? Worked on me..."  
"Rabbit still has most of his original parts," Hatchworth reminded him. "Might not work."  
The Spine put down the paper. "Fine. I'll sing, you drive."  
Five minutes later, they came back to put Rabbit in the trunk.  
*  
Time, as some other poets said, is still passing on.  
Even for beings that had survived three turns of the century, waiting is abominable. Fortunately for the 'bots, they were also musicians. Creative people can make time fly with nothing more than paper and a writing implement.  
The noise they make in the process is only a problem for secretaries, desk clerks, and innocent bystanders.  
Both The Spine and Hatchworth were getting rather raucous when one of the Walter-girls cleared her throat -several times- to interrupt them.  
"You can visit," she said.  
"You mean he isn't fixed?" said Hatchworth.  
"We're working on stabilizing... Rabbit. It's difficult work without the blueprints."  
"Doesn't Waltercorp have all our blueprints?"  
"Well..."  
*  
1888... Or thereabouts.  
Fermenting rumours concerning the federation of Australia and fears of an American-style revolution lead unsuspected genius Plai G. Arist to take a steamer to America. There, she meets with the 'bots inventor, Walter, and steals away with one complete set of plans.  
Walter, obviously, was able to complete Rabbit from memory.  
All the way back to the goldfields around the Eureka Stockade.  
Nothing more is heard of Arist, the plans, nor any creative automata in or around the area.  
Finding out what happened now, would be a two hundred and thirty year old cold case.  
*  
Rabbit still had a twisted smile for them. "Hey guyz-z-zrk..." Rabbit managed. Once again, he was a disembodied head on a bench.  
The lab was clean. Pristine. Not the gloomy basement of yore.  
"I'd shake a hand, but mine are outta reach," Rabbit grinned.  
"So I see," noted Hatchworth, looking up to where they dangled on hooks.  
"They got my torso on the left bench, my hips on the right. My left leg's behind me. And my right's outta sight... I think my blue core's in the lab next door..." Another half smile, and both Hatchworth and The Spine realized that it was because half his face wasn't working. "That's me all over."  
The Spine strangled out a dutiful, if pained, laugh. "That joke's gotta be older than you are, Rabbit."  
"You know me. Stick with the class-s-s-ss-sics."  
"We're getting around to that," said one of the Walter-girls.  
"You need to pull yourself together," said Hatchworth. His blue core heart wasn't in it.  
Neither of them wanted Rabbit to wind up on the junkpile.  
The Spine decided. "We're going on a world adventure, Rabbit."  
"Anything like a horse adventure?"  
"Oh yeah," said Hatchworth. "For a start, it's bigger."  
"And wider," added The Spine. "To begin with, we're gonna fly all the way across the Pacific Ocean. All the way to Sydney, Australia."  
"Is he a nice fff-f-fe-e-ellow?"  
"Uhm," said the nearest Walter-girls. "Rabbit can't fly."  
"'Course I c-c-c-can't, I ain't got wings," said Rabbit.  
"Changes in atmospheric pressure could disrupt Rabbit's circuitry. Perhaps even disturb some key gears and disrupt Rabbit's pathways."  
"We could take a boat?"  
"A slow boat?"  
"That might take a while," observed Rabbit.  
"We have a little something that might help. It isn't slow, but it is *steady*."  
*  
It was a boat.  
It was a 'bot.  
It was a boat and a 'bot.  
It was the best Walter had been able to make once he realized the plans had not, in fact got lost in his creative packrattus but had been stolen.  
It was a work of art, even restored from its mouldering for almost a century in one of Waltercorps' basements.  
The 'bot and the boat both were called G. Edward Smokes. The 'bot part was a torso, head and arms on a stick, which traveled around the ship by a system of sunken rails and concealed chains.  
"I used to be steam-powered," he said by way of introduction. "But now we have a blue core, oh yes. Which leaves significant room for propulsion."  
"Nothing too bumpy!"  
"No, no. Nothing bumpy," Smokes waved his hands hurriedly. "I won't use the jets. I promise."  
The objecting Walter Girl, Doctor Plank (PhD, B.InfTech, M.Eng, etc.) sized Smokes up and down with a cold glare. "I'd better bring my toolkit. I'm going to come with you and keep an eye on Rabbit."  
Smokes' copper eyebrows shot up so high they hid under his brass hat. "I didn't do anything! We haven't even launched!"  
"I remember the last time you tried your jets," iced Plank. "Either keep them on ice, or I'll disconnect them myself."  
"Hey, that means he has to c-cool his jets," joked Rabbit.  
Everyone present spared a moment to glare at the offending 'bot.  
"What that *necessary*?" said The Spine.  
"Yes," grinned Rabbit.  
*  
One would expect, on already-perilous sea adventures, to encounter a certain amount of pirates, sea monsters, foul weather and sundry other mishaps to enthrall readers and build a sense of tension.  
Unfortunately for any decent sense of narrative, none of this happened.  
Any potential pirates looked at Smokes' rail guns, quickly apologized, and went looking for better victims.  
Though there was that one time that Smokes refused to use a perfectly serviceable GPS in favour of a sextant and compas, but that was quickly solved by Plank threatening his inner workings with a baseball bat.  
And the other time the Australian coast guard thought they were pirates or terrorists or both - again, quickly solved by an impromptu concert on Smokes' deck.  
And then there was getting into the country.  
"So... they're machines."  
"Technically, yes," said Plank.  
"Then we gotta fumigate 'em. And hold them in quarantine for six months to make sure anything in 'em didn't survive."  
"We can't wait that long!"  
"Ma'am, we take protection of our environment very seriously."  
"The only b-b-bugs in my system are from lack of rrrrr-repairs," sulked Rabbit.  
"And there's no room for anything to be living in us, anyway," protested The Spine. He opened up a chest-plate to display the pristine, moving gears. "See?"  
"This is a mission of mercy," said Plank. "If we don't find Rabbit's original plans in time..."  
"I could shut down for good," added Rabbit.  
"And what about the bloke in the boat on the dock?"  
"He's a permanent fixture," said Plank. "He's not just in the boat, he is the boat."  
*  
It took five hours, a call to the supervisor, a call to their supervisor, an argument in a hallway between five mor supervisors and, finally, a spray down of all 'bots' workings with the insecticide of their mutual choice before they were officially allowed in Australia.  
Plank, token organic, demanded accommodations, a hot meal, and some sleep before they went any further.  
She got as far as the hot meal before calling the 'bots together.  
"They don't talk American English here, so I'll upgrade your data with an Australian lexicon. It'll help reduce the confusion."  
The Spine, as the only 'bot with WiFi, got his before either of the others. "Are you sure it isn't another language?"  
"How many synonyms for 'drunk' could they *have*?" pondered Hatchworth.  
Rabbit was rocking back and forth. "The swearing... The swearing..."  
"They don't use everything at once," cautioned Plank. "This is just so you understand. Don't... try to use any of it with Australians."  
"Yeah," said Hatchworth. "They'll think you're taking the... pee."  
"Not quite, but close enough," Plank kicked her shoes off and fell into bed. "Please stay quiet while I sleep?"  
The 'bots obligingly turned their mute functions on.  
*  
Opening a two hundred and thirty year old cold case is phenomenally dull. There is, for instance, a lot of flipping through paper. And narrowing down which piles of paper are most likely to yield profitable data.  
Plank, as a holder of multiple degrees, had had experience with research a lot like that.  
The 'bots did their best, but they were not made for paging through endless books' worth of data.  
"Arist! I found her!" Plank crowed. "She married and moved to Queensland."  
"Queensland, where?" said Hatchworth. "This place is four times bigger than Texas."  
"A place called... Caboolture."  
"It's p-p-pronounced ca-bull-cha," corrected Rabbit.  
"Checking the address..." Plank flipped through more books. "Looks like it was kept in the family... but nobody's lived there since the nineteen twenties. Last living descendant lives... on the Gold Coast." An optimistic smile. "I have a phone number! We can make an appointment and get this sorted out in no time."  
*  
Arists' descendant, Dolly Bludja, boggled at The Spine and Hatchworth, and frowned in an astonished manner at Rabbit.  
"The old mansion? Whadaya wanna go there for? Place is bloody haunted." Bludja shook her head. "I only went there once, when I was a littlie. There's something..." another stare at Rabbit, "weird in that house."  
"We believe there may be some important information still stored there," said Plank. "From your great-great-great grandmother, Plae G. Arist."  
"Plaesir the Nutter? Yeah, she built the old place. Sure you can go. Just stay outta the basement, got it?"  
"The basement?"  
"Yeah. Don't go in the basement," cautioned Bludja. "You can stir up quite the scene if you're on the mezzanine, but don't go in the basement. You can feel yourself aloof, playing rummy on the roof, but don't go in the basement."  
"Yeah, you might think that it's real cool," sang The Spine, "to slide down the bannister like some darn fool but don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't go in the basement..."  
Bludja glared at him. "Are you taking the piss?"  
"You started it," said The Spine.  
"Hahahahaha, quirky eighteen-nineties robotics," Plank managed through a sudden rictus. "What a laugh, eh? Pleasetellusyou'restilllettinguslookthroughtheoldmansion?"  
"Nah, yeah. You can go. Knowing you lot, you'll go to the basement, first thing. Hang on a mo'. I gotta find the keys."  
They were locked up in a box. And the box was under a pile of other documents in a safe. And the safe was under a pile of old clothes in the back of a wardrobe. And the wardrobe was in the back corner of the spare room which, like spare rooms the world over, had gradually filled with stuff that had no other place to go.  
There was a big key ring. Full of a lot of old-fashioned keys, and some newer ones.  
"Whole yard's probably scrub by now," said Bludja as she handed them over. "So watch out for spiders, snakes, and any plovers that might be nesting."  
"P-plovers?" asked Rabbit  
"Ground-nesting bird," said Plank. "They have spurs on their wings to defend their young from predators."  
"Why do people even live here?" wondered Hatchworth. "Even the birds are savage."  
Bludja grinned with pride.  
*  
The yard was overgrown. Trees, grass and bushes had sprung up, died, fallen and given rise to more trees, grass and bushes. It was its own ecology in the outskirts of a city that had given way to too much concrete and bitumen.  
Three people watching the 'bots and Plank had warned them not to go in the building. Strange noises could be heard from there. And clearly, nobody lived in the old place.  
They went, anyway.  
Nobody had lived there since the nineteen twenties. But, evidently, the family had used the place as a cheap method of storage for things that didn't quite matter so much, but that they also didn't want to dispose of.  
Successive generations of couches were stacked nigh impossibly on top of each other, bolstered by a cluster wardrobes and one ice box. A victriola crowned a stack of cardboard boxes, all leaking paper into the neglected interior. Old dressmaker's dummies lent the entire area an air of surreal horror.  
And that was just the start.  
"How are we going to find anything in this mess?" wondered Plank.  
"Follow the sound?" suggested Hatchworth.  
The door to the basement was locked. Successive generations of chains had been put through the handle and another handle attached to the nearest wall. Most recently, someone had nailed planks across it.  
And the sounds, like a cat being dragged backwards across a carpet of ill-tuned ukeleles, was coming from within.  
The Spine made short work of the planks, but Plank insisted on using the keys for the chains and their padlocks.  
Those that hadn't rusted into place, anyway.  
As they descended the stairs into -yes- more mess, the noise resolved itself into something like singing. Assuming the listener had never heard any before.  
"Ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong iddle eye po! Ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong iddle eye po! Ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong iddle eye po! Ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong, ying tong iddle eye po - iddle eye po! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Nacky nacky nacky. Ying tong iddle eye po..."  
One of the rusting dressmakers' dummies... wasn't. It was strumming something made of old bits of other things, that could pass for a ukelele in a poor light.  
And it looked...  
Quite a lot, really...  
Like...  
Rabbit.  
If Rabbit had been made of whatever rubbish was close to hand, with the help of a ball peen hammer and minimal skill.  
By now, the 'bots had seen a lot of the kind of car that had had bits of it obviously replaced by pieces of other cars of different colours. This robot struck them as being something like those cars.  
Those cars were called 'clunkers'.  
This... was a clunker of a Walter-bot.  
But she had never been made by Walter Robotics. Because Waltercorp kept track of all its wonderful creations.  
"Ying tong iddle eye..." the bot trailed off. "...hello?"  
There was no electricity in the old house and little light in the basement. Hatchworth let his power core illuminate an area. "Don't worry your head," he said. "We're just a merry band of troubadours."  
"And one human," added The Spine.  
"We're looking for plans for a rob-b-bot, see?" said Rabbit. "My plans."  
"My plans?" echoed the 'bot. Nervously clutching her instrument. "But... How will I fix myself? I mean, my wrists tend to hurt a bit and my knees are no good, so I've been stuck here for ages and... I don't wanna shut down."  
It was very strange to hear an Australian coming from something similar to Rabbit's face.  
"Neither d-do I," said Rabbit. "And I'm broken."  
The basement 'bot started forward, stopped, unplugged a cable from the back of her head and then finished the journey to Rabbit.  
"My maker couldn't quite figure it all out. I've been cobbled together out of whatever will fit. You, at least, were planned. You were wanted."  
She turned back to the desk that was, apparently, her home, and dug out a yellowing scroll from one of its drawers.  
"You're electric?" asked The Spine.  
"Yeah, nah. That's my internet connection. Helps me 'see' the world. Sort of. Heard about you lot. Prefer myself a little ELO, but you're pretty good, too." She handed the scroll across to Plank. "Been trying to figure it out ever since I was left on me own. Turns out I'm a bit thick." Sigh. "Rabbit deserves his adventures. Me? Can't remember the last time I was outside this basement."  
*  
They made a sled out of an old door and strapped the other 'bot (Her name was Bitzer Kludge) to it so they could haul her up the stairs. From there, a relatively short trip to Brisbane, and a rented lab care of Walter Holdings (LLC).  
They also fixed up Bitzer while they were at it. Most of her was not compatible with Waltercorp robot parts, but they did sand-blast most of the 'gluck' out of her knees and upgrade her internet to WiFi.  
"You don't run on blue core energy," said The Spine. "But you don't need coal. Or winding..."  
"One bit of genius from Plaesir," she opened up a chest plate to reveal a dazzling rainbow of light. "Opal power. Had to use what we had. Made do."  
"Ah. I was wondering about the gold."  
"I was wondering what stopped the organics from stripping it off me, tell the truth."  
"After a while, you were the family ghost."  
Bitzer snorted and rolled her eyes. The left one almost fell out.  
The assorted noises of busy Waltercorp technicians wound to a halt. Plank stepped out from behind the logo-emblazoned curtain to announce. "Lady and gentle-bot... allow me to introduce the new and improved... Bunny."  
It was still Rabbit. But some very obvious things had changed.  
"Nice chassis," smirked Hatchworth.  
FweeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEE.... "Sibling protective mode, engaged," said an automated voice inside The Spine. He loomed in the general direction of Hatchworth.  
"It was meant as a compliment!"  
"Guys, guys. Power down. I'm still the same old Rabbit. Just... closer to spec." Bunny twirled for the fun of it, showing off her shiny new silhouette. "I love the new me."  
"Can you still sing?" said The Spine.  
"Ey!" objected Bitzer. "Nah yeah. You're right. I shouldn't sing."  
Bunny burst forth in a vocal solo that would have knocked anyone's socks off. If there was anyone around wearing socks.  
"Well, then," smiled Hatchworth. "That's that. We're still a band!"  
"Coming with?" Bunny offered Bitzer.  
"Yeah, nah. Think I'll stay put. I'm not a Walter Bot and I do NOT belong in your band."  
"Definitely."  
"Too true."  
"Absolutely."  
Glare. "Didn't have to agree so quick..." Sigh. "Anyway. I have to find somewhere to fit in. Earn my keep. Pay the roaming fees," she flicked her antenna. "You lot go off and have your own adventures. I can keep watch. Cheer you on from the stands."  
They let Smokes use his jets for the trip home.

END!


End file.
